


The Settling

by Paper_Crane_Song



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paper_Crane_Song/pseuds/Paper_Crane_Song
Summary: There are reports coming in of a new Soviet recruit whose daemon hasn’t settled.Or: Napoleon and Illya meet for the first time, along with their daemons.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	The Settling

**Author's Note:**

> One of my New Year’s resolutions was to finish some of my abandoned stories. This is one such story, inspired by the fascinating Dark Materials series by Philip Pullman, which I read ages ago, and then was reminded of recently over Christmas when the BBC adaptation popped up. I’m a bit hazy on the finer points of daemon lore so I apologise for the inaccuracies, but hopefully the essential concepts ring true.
> 
> Your thoughts are always welcome. Thanks for reading.

Napoleon Solo’s daemon settled on his eleventh birthday; a precocious age, granted, but not unheard of. It earned him the respect of his peers, insults from his enemies and more than a little admiration from among the female population at his school. Gradually, his friends and classmates followed suit; daemons started settling with unerring regularity until the last year of high school when there was only one boy left, who shuffled the corridors distrusted and alone until his daemon finally settled too.

The point was that everyone’s daemon always settled, sooner or later. Always. It was a given, just as the sun rose in the sky each morning and just as the velocity of bullets decreased upon impact with water. Which was why, a couple of years after joining UNCLE, when the reports started coming in of a new recruit whose daemon hadn’t yet settled, Napoleon dismissed them as mere rumour.  
  
Until now. 

* * *

Tikimora was sunning herself under the heat lamp in his office when Wanda, one of the secretaries, appeared at his door.  
  
“Napoleon.”   
  
Her daemon, a delicate black cat, pounced onto his desk and eyed Tikimora suspiciously, her tail lashing angrily. For her part, Tikimora gazed languidly at it.

He sighed inwardly. Unfortunately Wanda had a deep dislike of reptiles, and that included bearded dragons. It was a shame because in all other respects Wanda was quite lovely.

Still, it never hurt to try. He offered her a winning smile. “Wanda. To what do I owe this pleasure?”  
  
“He’s here, in Mr. Waverly’s office. Mr Waverly wanted you to join them.” There was no need for her to explain further. Everyone in headquarters knew who _he_ was; the talk in the commissary had been of nothing else for weeks. Little was known about him save that he’d gone through survival school before joining the European branch, and that he was Soviet, and that his daemon had no fixed form. Of the latter two, it was difficult to say which concerned people more.

Napoleon himself hadn’t joined in the gossip. Perhaps it was the memory of that boy in high school, and his own guilt and cowardice for avoiding him like everyone else. In any case, he felt that the new guy deserved a chance before his character was decided for him.

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t intrigued though. “What’s he like?” he asked Wanda, who was showing every sign of leaving.  
  
She frowned. “I’m not sure,” she said at last. “It was hard to get a sense of him. It was as if he didn’t want to be seen.”  
  
Tikimora cocked her head, her way of showing curiosity, and the cat bolted off the desk and shot out the door, with Wanda following close behind.  
  
“Tell Waverly I’ll be right up,” he called after her.  
  
“Well,” he said to his daemon, “Shall we go take a look?”

* * *

When he entered the briefing room he was greeted by Mr. Waverly. “Ah, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly said, standing, and the man next to him stood a split second after. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Kuryakin.”  
  
He turned with real interest, but was disappointed with what he saw; a small, blond man in a cheap suit and glasses, with nothing remarkable about him except for perhaps his hair. Still, manners were manners.

“Napoleon Solo,” he said, extending his hand, “it’s a pleasure,” and he caught a brief look of surprise on the man’s face as they shook hands. He wondered at it, but pressed on with the introductions. “And this is Tikimora.” The man bowed his head slightly in the direction of the lizard, who had crawled up to perch on the back of the chair.

“Mr. Kuryakin has just joined us from the London office,” Mr. Waverly said as they took their seats.

“Ah. How was the flight?” he asked, trying surreptitiously to catch a glance of the man’s daemon, but it was nowhere to be seen.

“It was uneventful.”

“In our line of work, that’s often a good thing.” He was rewarded by a quirk of the lips. Not quite a smile, but an appreciation.

“Pondo, those files if you please - ” Waverly held out his hand to the shelf, and his daemon bear lumbered over and stood up on its hind legs to retrieve them. Napoleon always got a shock when it did that; each time he forgot quite how big that thing was. It was rare for anyone in UNCLE to have a daemon of that size; theirs was a profession that required a daemon to be small, quick and hard to detect.

It was evident that the man – Kuryakin - hadn’t seen a daemon that large before either, and his eyes kept travelling back to it.

Throughout the briefing Napoleon reflected that Wanda had been right in her assessment of Kuryakin; it was indeed hard to get a sense of him. Whilst his accent was just the wrong side of Queen’s Received Pronunciation, he did not waste words. He offered no opinions of his own, and absorbed all the information matter-of-factly. Any questions he asked were astute and to the point. In fact it was all a little… boring. Napoleon stifled a yawn.

When the briefing came to an end, and Waverly turned to Pondo to consolidate the files, and Napoleon’s mind had turned towards lunch, Kuryakin surprised him by addressing him.

“Today my daemon is a mouse. Will your daemon eat her?”

He blinked. The question was delivered in all seriousness, but there was a hint of amusement around his eyes and he realised that Kuryakin was joking with him.

“Insects are more her line.”

“Good.” Kuryakin spoke into his suit pocket. “Yeva, it is safe to come out.”

He watched, intrigued, as a little pink nose poked out from Kuryakin’s pocket. Then the rest of it emerged, and a white mouse ran across the table towards Tikimora before stopping short. 

“Forgive her, she has not seen a daemon such as yours before. She is a little curious. And I think, a little timid.”

“Yes, Tikimora has that effect on people.” They watched as the mouse sniffed the air around the bearded dragon. 

“Where I come from,” Kuryakin said then, “lizards are considered to be good luck.”

_And just where is that?_ he wanted to ask, but he refrained. It would be impolite to ask so personal a question, especially when Kuryakin was trying to be friendly. So he responded in kind. 

“She’s brought me luck all right. She’s saved my life more times than I can count.”

Kuryakin nodded in understanding. “Yes. It’s the same with Yeva and I.”

They watched as their daemons interacted, Yeva edging closer and closer until Tikimora flicked her tongue out, and Yeva bolted for Kuryakin’s pocket again. They shared a somewhat embarrassed smile. 

“What was she yesterday?” Napoleon said, feeling that at least he’d earned the right to ask this. 

“An insect.” And there was that flash of amusement again.

“Gentlemen,” Waverly said then, and he noticed how Kuryakin shut down once more, his expression slipping into respectful neutrality. He recognised Waverly’s invitation to leave, so he took his cue and stood up, with Kuryakin copying him. 

“Want to grab some lunch?” he said to Kuryakin.

* * *

  
In the commissary there was a noticeable hush as they entered. Napoleon was embarrassed for him, but Kuryakin didn’t seem to notice. At least, he didn’t seem to be affected by it. 

They took their trays and sat down at one of the few empty tables. Kuryakin had removed his glasses to eat, and without them he looked frighteningly young. Napoleon wished everyone would quit staring at them. Yet Kuryakin appeared used to it, even though he ate quickly, his head bowed, as if doing everything he could not to draw attention to himself. 

Napoleon placed some choice morsels on a plate for Tikimora, but Kuryakin’s daemon was still in hiding. He noticed Kuryakin secreting tidbits into his handkerchief, no doubt to offer his daemon later.

He’d banked on lunch to find out more about Kuryakin, but he soon realised that the commissary was no place for an interrogation. Too many people were aware of them, listening in, and if anything Kuryakin was even more reserved than he had been in Waverly’s office. So Napoleon kept the conversation light, and Kuryakin appeared content to listen, only interrupting occasionally to ask for clarification. He seemed reluctant to cause a scene, yet Napoleon had the distinct impression that it was less because he was shy and more because he couldn’t be bothered with one. 

He would have to wait until they were alone before he could quiz him. 

* * *

  
But UNCLE agents are rarely alone, and it was not until they were partnered together on a night assignment that he had Kuryakin all to himself. And yet by that stage, he found he had a certain reticence to question him.

Not that he wasn’t curious, far from it, but he felt that it would be an imposition on this delicate, fragile thing that was perhaps too early to be called a friendship, and yet he hoped that this was what it was becoming. At first he’d kept an eye on Kuryakin out of a latent desire to atone for his high school prejudices, but then he found himself liking Kuryakin, was frequently surprised and amused by his dry observations and behaviour. It also tickled him that for all Kuryakin’s veneer of obedience and submissiveness, he did what he wanted, when he wanted. That he was brilliant, but unobtrusively so, so that most of the other agents didn’t seem to have the faintest idea. And he had the idea that Illya was fine with that, that he even encouraged it.

So he followed Illya’s lead, exchanging thoughts and personal information only when Illya felt comfortable to bring a topic up, which was seldom. Perhaps it was because he did not ask Illya questions, as he had heard others do, that Illya seemed to feel comfortable around him, more able to be himself around him.

On that particular night assignment, Tikimora had proved her worth yet again. A Thrush operative’s daemon, an Alsatian, bit down hard on her tail and was flummoxed when it came off in its jaws, allowing Tikimora to sprint to safety with the microfilm. 

And Yeva also proved her worth by imitating said dog when Illya knocked the Thrush operative unconscious and donned his clothes to gain entry to the control room. And yet the expression on Illya’s face when Yeva transformed in front of Napoleon was so horrified that it was almost comical. Illya had scolded her soundly afterwards in a language that sounded like Russian, and from what little Napoleon could understand, he gathered that Yeva rarely changed her form in front of others.

“No wonder Waverly poached you from the London office,” Napoleon said admiringly as they watched the ensuing explosion against the night sky from the safety of the truck. 

Beside him, Illya stiffened and looked at Yeva, who was currently a small bird, but then he relaxed as Napoleon continued, “I’ve never seen that amount of plastics do so much damage before. It wasn’t even the size of a tie pin.”

“It’s all about the placement.” And with a glint in his eye, “size isn’t everything, Napoleon.” 

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he said lightly, but he wondered about Illya’s initial reaction.

It was only later, when they were back at HQ, that he started paying attention to the rumblings and the commissary chatter. The general consensus was that Waverly had only recruited the Soviet because of his daemon; that he was undoubtedly a valuable asset to have on their side, but an asset to be regarded with suspicion nevertheless. There was a great deal of speculation as to why his daemon hadn’t settled, but the prevailing opinion was that there was an inherent wrongness about him, a flaw or detect that ran through to his very soul. 

In a nutshell, people were afraid of Illya, Napoleon thought, as he stroked Tikimora’s head. And yet, he himself wasn’t afraid. And Illya seemed to know that.

“Should I be?” he asked Tikimora. She gazed back at him with a silly, sappy expression on her face, punchdrunk with pleasure at having her head stroked. 

And so the two men gravitated towards each other more and more, frequently partnering up on assignments until Waverly made it official, and then it was as if it had always been so. 

* * *

  
  
“Napoleon, I am in need of you.”  
  
From across his apartment, Tikimora twitched her head.  
  
“What’s wrong? Are you all right?” he said into the communicator, instantly on alert. His partner had the annoying habit of downplaying life-threatening situations, his deadpan delivery often belying the severity and danger.  
  
“Yes. But there’s something you have to see.”  
  
When he arrived at Illya’s apartment, Illya opened the door before he could knock.  
  
“What’s the emergency?” Napoleon said, half-angry because his adrenaline was pumping and he was in full fight mode and his partner seemed just fine to him. On his shoulder, Tiki bared her teeth, her tail swishing.  
  
But something in Illya’s expression stopped him. If he didn’t know better he’d say Illya had been drinking, but with his partner blocking the door their noses were practically touching and there was no alcohol on his breath.  
  
Without speaking Illya opened the door fully, and then quickly closed the door again once he was inside.  
  
“What...” the question died on his lips. 

There in front of him stood a large white horse. 

For a moment he stopped breathing until Tikimora nipped his hand, and he gasped.

“Is that - “

“Yes,” Illya said, answering his unspoken question. “That is Yeva.”

Napoleon approached her cautiously. The horse stood her ground and gazed at him through clear black eyes. He raised his hand and gently stroked her side, and she butted at him lightly against his shoulder. 

“She’s beautiful,” he said, and regretted it because Tikimora nipped him again, hard.

But Illya was frowning, yet his eyes had an almost feverish, exhilarated quality to them.

“What is it?” Napoleon said with real concern, as Yeva pushed her muzzle into his palm.

Illya hesitated, then he blurted, “She won’t change back. She’s settled, Napoleon.”

Napoleon watched in awe as the horse trotted to Illya and Illya placed his hands either side of her and rested his forehead against hers despairingly.

“Well, she’s rather on the large side for espionage, granted, but I’m sure we can make it work...” he trailed off as Illya said fiercely,

“As if I care about that. She’s perfect just as she is.”

“Then what?”

Illya began caressing her mane. “I am under no illusions. I know why Mr. Waverly allowed me to join UNCLE. Yet I was glad, because it brought me to you. Now my value has expired, I am sure he will act accordingly.”

It took a second to realise the implications of what Illya was saying, even as a part of him was glowing warm and bright at the unexpected disclosure. “Illya, you’re here because of your worth as an agent, not because of your daemon.“

“Do not mistake me for being naive. I have heard the rumours.”

“And that’s all they are. Rumours.” He snapped his fingers decisively. “Come on. We’ll go see the old man right now.” Tikimora sprang down from his shoulder.

Illya looked at him in alarm. “Like this?”

“Why not? May as well get used to it.”

* * *

  
So they walk to HQ. There is never any question of them riding Yeva; she trots beside them on the sidewalk, tall and proud, as Tikimora darts round their feet and pedestrians leap back and stare in amazement, their daemons chattering excitedly. 

Illya is closed off now, silent, but Napoleon can tell his partner is nervous, and despite his own earlier convictions, his heart is beating faster.

They enter through the shop entrance, and Del Floria exclaims loudly. Illya pretends not to hear. 

Somehow they manage to manoeuvre the horse through the changing room, and the girl on the other side lets out a small shriek as they emerge. But she doesn’t say anything; nobody does, they don’t dare to, because Illya’s expression is icy and Napoleon’s is dangerous. So instead they just stand and gape, as the sound of hoofs echo through the corridors.

Waverly has evidently been briefed on the situation because he is waiting for them in his chair, pipe in hand. He beckons them in, “Come in, gentlemen,” and puffs on his pipe in evident satisfaction.

“I’ve been expecting this for some time. I rather hoped your daemon would settle, Mr. Kuryakin, once we got you here.”

“Sir,” Illya replies, looking confused.

Waverly stands then and regards the horse appraisingly.

“My, my. She really is a magnificent creature.” Pondo waits patiently at his side, looking vaguely bored. “Very good. Well then,” and he sits down again, “Carry on, gentlemen, carry on,” and with a wave he turns them out of the room.

Napoleon and Illya leave with their daemons in tow and then they look at one another, slightly dazed.

“We’re going to need a bigger office,” Napoleon says, and Illya nods slowly in agreement.

They start walking, and the other agents stare in wonder and flatten themselves against the walls of the corridor as they pass by.

Tikimora is lounging on Yeva’s back and she looks down from her lofty perch at Napoleon with something like recrimination in her golden eyes.

_This is your fault._

Napoleon shrugs, smiling, wholly unapologetic. 

And Illya? 

Illya is shining, for everyone to see.

_Finis_


End file.
